Pardon Me Too
by hatondog
Summary: Sherlock has skirted social disaster to receive a pardon directly from the Queen (see, the prequel story, Pardon Me). He also received a private assignment from her to solve a sexually charged mystery which threatens the crown. The case will bring back an old friend and put him at further odds with Mycroft-who is, thanks to Her Majesty, Sherlock's new boss.
1. Chapter 1

Pardon Me Too

Chapter 1.

"What's this?" asked John. He held a piece of paper aloft. The top of the paper was embossed with the words "Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth". It was a letter which Sherlock had found folded into the Royal Prerogative of Mercy order which the Queen had granted him earlier in the day.

The effect of the order granted was two-fold. Firstly, it pardoned Sherlock for the death of Charles Augustus Magnussen, a newspaper magnate whom he'd dispatched with a single gunshot the previous Christmas Day. Magnussen had been a threat to John and Mary's lives, which had been enough justification for Sherlock to act. But he'd also been a blackmailing thorn in the side of the governments of numerous countries, so few mourned his loss. Least of all the Queen, who was unofficially pleased at Magnussen's elimination from the world scene.

But her real motivation for the pardon was a more practical one. To maintain it, Sherlock would have to work with the British Security Services-under the supervision of Mycroft. The nation would benefit more than ever from Sherlock's efforts and Mycroft would work hard to keep him in line. In addition, Mycroft (who was known to go rogue occasionally himself) would owe Elizabeth an enormous debt of gratitude. The inevitable fireworks between the brothers notwithstanding, it was a win-win for Her Majesty.

"George Smith," Sherlock answered, taking the letter from John.

"The barber on Gower Street?"

"No," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "A bit more important man than the one whose been giving you those awful military flat tops lately."

John's hand went reflexively to his head. "What's wrong with my hair?" he asked.

"Too short. Makes you look…" Sherlock waved his hand, too disinterested to select an adjective. "No, this George Smith has a very contentious history with the Royal Family."

"Worse than telling the Queen to shove off when she tries to save your life?" John asked wryly.

Sherlock glared. "I didn't," he muttered.

"Actually, you did," John answered. "Without equivocation, I might add. A big flat 'no'. To the _Queen_ ".

"She was sending me to prison. That's what working with Mycroft will be like—I'd prefer a gulag."

"She was keeping you from one. Having to work with your brother is not the same as languishing in solitary confinement at Pentonville, Sherlock. Or at least it's not as bad."

"Agree to disagree," Sherlock muttered.

"Anyway, who is George Smith?" asked John.

"The more pertinent question is _what_ was George Smith." Sherlock said, steepling his hands beneath his chin.

"Ok," sighed John. It seemed that Sherlock was in a pedantic mood. " _What_ was he?"

"A threat. A somewhat ridiculous one by today's standards, but a threat at the time nonetheless."

" _Sherlock_ ," said John wearily. "Just tell me." Sherlock sighed. He hated when John wouldn't indulge his sense of drama.

"Fine. In 2003, George Smith was working at the Palace. He claimed that he was raped by a member of Prince Charles' staff, Michael Fawcett. It was an enormous scandal, even I heard about it. You would have been off faffing about in Afghanistan then, or otherwise putting your neck on the line for Her Majesty."

"I was _fighting a war,_ Sherlock," John responded through gritted teeth.

"Whatever," he responded. "The Royal Family was fighting one of their own at home. The rape charges were bad enough, but what particularly drove the point close to home was that Fawcett and the Prince were said to be good friends— _exceedingly_ good friends. They were seen together socially to an unusual degree, Fawcett often traveled with the Prince, They even did business together. According to Smith, they did something more as well—he's said to have caught them in bed together while delivering the Prince's morning repast." Sherlock relayed. "Well, the Family couldn't have that. Bad enough that the Prince's marriage to Diana was circling the drain before her death. Having him dragged out of the closet as well—whether the allegation was true or not-was just too rich a pot of scandal for the Windsors."

"That can't be true. I would have heard of it at some point," John protested. "And besides, who would really care if the story was true or not? This isn't the dark ages."

"The most powerful family in the Kingdom cared a great deal," Sherlock said. "The Prince was still married at the time of the alleged events. If the Family frowned on his dalliances with Camilla, having them extend into a same sex relationship would cause a royal implosion. They very much wanted the story to go away. Poor George Smith knocked on a lot of doors to get his side of the story heard, but his credibility was repeatedly attacked." Sherlock's lips tightened. "That tactic may sound familiar from when it was employed so well by Moriarty against me."

John shuddered. Watching Moriarty (aided by Sherlock's enemies within Scotland Yard) decimate Sherlock's reputation while bringing him under suspicion for committing the crimes he'd devoted his life to solving had been like being trapped in a nightmare. One which ended with Sherlock's apparently fatal fall from St. Bartholemew's Hospital. The conviction that he'd been driven to his death by jackals of the press feeding on his life still resonated with John, even though reports of his death had been proven to be premature.

"Smith was all but crucified. An influential talking head on the radio declared him to be 'the most unreliable source for any story on anything anywhere in the United Kingdom.'" No mincing words there. Publication of the story has been censored in the UK, although the Scots ran with it, as did the Republic of Ireland. If I understand the situation correctly—and I do—Smith lost his job, his marriage and his children, but never backed away from his account of the facts." Sherlock smiled grimly. "Our Government can be quite beneficent with its attention when it decides to tear a person's life apart."

"The Family didn't dirty its hands directly in the affair, of course. As in all things, it called in an expert in disemboweling someone by exploiting his sexual history."

"A tabloid reporter?" John asked. He'd never forgiven the rag which led a one woman charge in the form of Kitty Reilly against Sherlock before his "suicide".

"No, I said an _expert_. Someone who could be counted on to get results _and_ keep their machinations out of the public eye. Someone who has lived and breathed secrecy, keeping those of others quiet as if they were the nuclear codes. Someone highly skilled in sexual espionage."

"A spy?" John asked.

"Maybe, this person's job description has evolved in interesting directions over the past few years." Sherlock said wryly.

"You know this person, then?"

"Yes. So do you," Sherlock noted.

He stood and went to a small cabinet beside a front window of 221B. Pulling open a drawer, he withdrew an object. As he walked back toward John, the latter's eyes widened with recognition.

"That's the phone, the Woman's phone." John sputtered. "That's Irene Adler's phone. Are you saying that she was involved in burying the lead on the Prince Charles story?"

"No," said Sherlock with a slight smile. "I'm saying that she's leading the charge on bringing the story back to light."

John stared at him for several long moments. Then, in a tone which suggested that he was a few breaths from an explosion, he said "Irene Adler is dead. Mycroft said she was dead. You said she was dead. The Government's own damn file on her said she is dead."

"The Government's own damn file on me said the same, yet here I am."

"Doesn't _anyone_ stay dead around you?" John snorted in exasperation.

"Magnussen will," Sherlock answered quietly. The balloon of John's indignation at being left out of the loop on Irene deflated. He sank back into his chair.

"So, walk me through it."

"The Woman was driven from England and hasn't been able to return without risk of my brother doing something stupid." Sherlock said.

"Mycroft doesn't know she's alive?" asked John incredulously. Sherlock nodded. "How in the hell did she pull that off?"

"She had help," smirked Sherlock. John just stared in response, slightly open-mouthed. "But apparently her willingness to live the ex-pat life has run out and… _what_?"

John was slicing his hand across his throat. "Stop a moment. Just stop," he commanded.

Sherlock sighed. He knew what had captured John's attention and believed it to be irrelevant to, well, anything.

"The _point_ is that she's found a wedge into Mycroft's defenses, a path to extort her way home. It's elegant, really-".

"No," repeated John. "I don't care. Or at least I don't care just _now_. Let's return to the 'help' she received."

Sherlock ignored him. "She's gone over his head in the only way possible, to the person with power greater than his own. If the Queen presses her cause…oh, _fine._ Just ask," he snapped.

John leaned forward, hands on his knees. He sat quietly for a moment, then dropped his gaze to Sherlock's hand. Changing tactics, he cut straight to the question which most concerned him, rather than focusing on the what, when and why of Irene Adler's survival.

"You kept it, her phone," he said, nodding to the mobile phone Sherlock was still holding. "Why?"

"It wasn't worth the effort of discarding." Sherlock's voice was firm, but his gaze shifted away.

"You deleted the solar system from your memory, Sherlock. Tossing an old phone into the bin would have been a piece of cake. Why did you keep it?" John asked insistently.

"Why does it matter? I have a bull's skull too, but you don't question me about that," Sherlock said. John sighed.

"Fine, moving on. She had help. _Your_ help, yes?"

Sherlock crossed his arms. He nodded but kept his lips pressed together. Everything about his attitude screamed "off limits." John simply sat with an air of infinite patience. Finally, Sherlock bit out an explanation.

"She is a person of rare intelligence. Had I not intervened, she would have been killed. That would have been a waste, and I despise waste." John sat expectantly, eyebrows raised. Sherlock huffed. "That is _all,_ " he said sharply. When John still didn't speak, Sherlock stood and began to pace and fill the silence.

"Your persistence in attaching sentimental significance to my behavior is tiresome, John. As I've told you, I have no such notions. My interest in women is no different than my interest in men—minimal and entirely pragmatic. All of my passion is reserved for my work. People are merely to be endured, used, ignored and, very rarely, enjoyed." Sherlock said this last with a quick look to confirm that John understood his place in the pecking order.

John nodded solemnly, then asked with an excess of sincerity, "OK. Mycroft told me she'd died at the hands of insurgents in Afghanistan. What category do "people you risk your neck to rescue from terrorists" fall into? Endured, used, ignored or-" John grinned. "Enjoyed?"

"Oh, stop it," muttered Sherlock.

"Alone together in the desert, adrenaline rushing through your veins after saving a damsel in distress…yes, sounds potentially very enjoyable. Very enjoyable, indeed," John mused, grin widening.

Sherlock glared. "She's gay, John," he retorted.

"She also called you her 'exception'," John shot back. Looking at the outrage crossing Sherlock's face, he couldn't decide which was more fun—this turn in the conversation or Sherlock's earlier disastrous meeting with the Queen. Something about seeing Sherlock firmly on his back foot was delicious. Dangerous as poking an angry bear, but too rare an opportunity to let pass by without milking it.

" _As I was saying,_ " growled Sherlock. "What matters is that Ms. Adler is no longer playing in what the Americans call the minor leagues. She's gone straight to the top of the British hierarchy, at the risk of being not only refused, but hunted. Not to mention the potential fallout of putting my brother's considerable nose out of joint. That means that she had powerful motivation to act. But what is it? And why pursue it now?"

"She misses you?" mused John with a smirk.

Sherlock responded by flinging the Woman's mobile back into his desk and slamming the drawer with enough force to bounce it back open. He stalked to the door of the flat and made to leave.

"Fine, fine, I'll quit," John said placatingly. "Just tell me this—do you think her involvement has anything at all to do with Moriarty's image popping up all over London?"

Sherlock stopped, clearly debating whether to continue his strop or return to the topic at hand. He decided on the latter.

"I don't know. It doesn't seem possible, but once you've discarded the improbable-"

"Whatever remains must be the truth, however impossible," John interrupted. "I know. So what do you do now? Besides turn up at Mycroft's office to work your shift on Monday morning."

Sherlock ignored the last, although his shoulders stiffened slightly. He returned to his desk and retrieved the Woman's phone. After examining it for a moment, he pressed in numbers and raised the phone to his ear. "I have a phone call to make," he said, lips twisting. "To an old friend."

"Bit risky, her interacting with you. Your past gallantry aside, what makes you think she'll come out of hiding to talk?" asked John.

"I can offer some powerful motivation too," Sherlock responded.

"Which is?" got in John just before he heard the sounds of the phone ringing the number Sherlock had dialed.

"Dinner," said Sherlock grimly.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2.

"Where are we going, Sherlock?" said John irritably. They'd gone to his home, picked up his car (with a brief stop for a goodbye to Mary, punctuated with eye-rolling from Sherlock), and had now been driving for an hour. Most of the time had been spent getting out of London, since rush hour was quickly approaching. John was without food, without Mary, and rapidly becoming without patience.

"You know where we're going," Sherlock answered.

"No, I know _who_ we're going to see, not _where_ she is. Based on how long we've been in this car, I'm guessing the back of beyond. Which is a good place for Irene Adler, if you ask me." John shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat. He rarely drove, so the prospect of navigating through busy London streets to some unknown destination hadn't been attractive. Sherlock therefore took over and was, unsurprisingly, a good driver. Mary's Audi A4 was also well-stocked with creature comforts. But deeply padded leather seats aside, the novelty of the journey was fast beginning to pall.

"Seriously, Sherlock, if you're going to be all mysterious about this trip," John waggled his fingers in air-quotes, earning a scowl from Sherlock, "At least tell me how long I can expect to be trapped making it."

"Wokstop," Sherlock said with a sigh.

"Wok…where?" John asked.

"Wokstop. Unofficial capital of The Dukeries region and, not incidentally, home of Welbeck Abbey. Surely you know the story of Welbeck," Sherlock said archly, quite aware that its existence, much less its history, were probably unknown to John.

"Surely, I don't. And surely you know that, so why don't you just fill me in," John snapped. "God knows you're dying to."

Sherlock huffed, but John was right. The opportunity to hold forth on an arcane subject about which his listener knew nothing was something Sherlock couldn't resist.

"Welbeck Abbey is the ancestral home of the Portlands, including the fifth Duke of Portland who lived there in the late 1800s. The Duke was a recluse the likes of which has rarely been seen. He never left home if he could avoid it and went to extraordinary lengths to avoid all human contact. He even built an electric railway inside the house to bring him food from the kitchen so he wouldn't have to interact with anyone at mealtimes."

"So a hero of yours, then?" John asked drily. Sherlock ignored him.

"What makes the Abbey of interest to us isn't that part of the house, though. It's the second wing of the house—more precisely, the network of rooms beneath the main floor. The old Duke put a large dent in his fortune having the underground wing built, including entertaining spaces which never saw use. Even better, the rooms connect to a vast series of tunnels and secret passageways which run for considerable distances beneath the surrounding landscape."

Despite himself, John was intrigued. Sherlock smiled. His story had worked as intended, distracting John until they were out of the city and heading into the countryside.

"A perfect hiding place, then," John said.

Sherlock nodded. "With the advantage of being all but invisible to anyone who doesn't know the property, yet with access to a fully functional living space—kitchens, toilets, everything one could reasonably need."

"Did you set her up there?"

"No, I don't know how she found it. I haven't been in touch with the Woman since returning to London."

John shook his head, struggling to take the implication in. "You mean, you saw her while you were off being dead?"

Sherlock had been absent from London for two years while working to destroy what was left of James Moriarty's criminal network after his death. John had believed Sherlock to be dead throughout that period, a point that was still a sore spot between them. While John eventually understood the reason, even the necessity, of the charade, its emotional impact on him had been devastating. Not something easily erased from memory, no matter how many apologies the usually unremorseful Sherlock offered.

Sherlock became absorbed in driving, a ridiculous pretense since the roads were now clear of traffic as they moved deeper into the countryside. Sherlock typically avoided discussion of his time away, but John suspected that this silence was motivated more by reluctance to discuss his relationship with the Woman.

Irene Adler, known professionally and to Sherlock as "The Woman," had been a dominatrix of substantial repute at one time. Her career (at least in London) had come to a crashing halt when she tried and failed to extort a lifetime's money and influence from the British Government, in the person of Mycroft. Sherlock had been the fly in the ointment, both in terms of the blackmail and her emotional state. As John understood it, her attraction to Sherlock had led her to unwisely use his name as the passcode for the phone which held the information she'd hoped to leverage into a fortune. He'd deduced it and left her to Mycroft's mercies, which had been minimal.

Sherlock's excuse that he'd rescued her from certain death just to preserve her intellect smacked of nonsense. To John, the news that they'd been in contact during Sherlock's "death" cemented his suspicion that Sherlock had formed an emotional attachment to the Woman as well. The idea was mind-boggling, and not one John intended to let lie. But he knew his friend well enough to recognize when the conversational gates had slammed shut—the pressed lips and the intense gaze anywhere but John's direction all signaled Sherlock's determination to change topics. John would wait—the time to ambush Sherlock on the subject of the Woman would eventually come.

"OK," he said. "If you won't tell me what you got up to with Irene Adler, at least tell me how long it'll be until the big reunion."

"I didn't _get up_ to anything and 30 minutes."

"Fine," said John.

"Fine," answered Sherlock. Just as silence began to settle in, Sherlock's phone buzzed. John looked at the display.

"It's Mycroft."

"Ignore him," Sherlock commanded. The phone buzzed again. After several seconds, it stopped then began anew. This continued until Sherlock stabbed at the screen to power it down. His attention drawn from the road, the car swerved onto the shoulder.

"Stop! Just let me answer if you won't and try not to kill us," John barked. He grabbed for the phone and swiped across the screen to answer the call and turn on the speaker.

"You should know by now, Sherlock, that you can't ignore me. No lesser an eminence than the Queen of England has ensured it." Mycroft's voice filled the car.

"I was going to wait until you'd sent a helicopter, Mycroft," Sherlock snarked. "You did it for John, the least you can do for your little brother is provide transportation to work."

"Yes, well, speaking of work, you aren't here." Mycroft noted.

"How perceptive of you. I can see now how you've managed to sucker so many people into giving you power, brother dear."

"Boys," interjected John. He was far too annoyed by being stuck in a car to add squabbling Holmes brothers to the mix. "Cut to the chase, please."

"Just so, John. Sherlock, you were to be at MI5 an hour ago. Instead, you are somewhere in the vicinity of Cheswell and going in the wrong direction. Am I to assume that you're taking a sick day, little brother?"

"Monday, Mycroft, not today. Even the poor working subjects of Her Majesty's secret service aren't on duty every day. And I told you before, you'll see me when I want you to. Or were you planning to lock me up in a corner of your office?"

"I am planning on you being available to assist the Commonwealth when needed, Sherlock. And, as I texted you this morning, you are needed now," Mycroft said grimly.

"I ignored that text, as you can see. I'm needed elsewhere." Sherlock said condescendingly.

"No," Mycroft answered. "You have an assignment, and I need you here to instruct you on it. Turn around, now."

"Sorry, but that won't be possible. If you really need to pretend that you can order me around, Mycroft, you can give me my assignment over the phone."

"No, I can't," Mycroft snapped.

"Then I'll talk to you on Monday," Sherlock tried to snatch his phone away from John to end the call. The car swerved slightly again.

" _Sherlock,_ " growled John. "You can be a pain in the arse on Monday, or any other day, but you won't be doing it while driving me down a road at 115 km/hour." He lifted the phone to speak directly into the microphone. "And you, Mycroft, can be a pompous prick some other time too. Just tell him what you need so I can get back to trying to survive this trip."

Both brothers sighed audibly, but stopped sniping at one another.

"What do you want, Mycroft? If you're worried about John hearing, don't be. I'll just tell him what you said anyway."

Mycroft sighed again. He knew it was true, so gave up any hope of his communication to Sherlock being private.

"It appears that I may have a hole in my security. I suspect someone, but cannot ask others in the organization to investigate. If this person is truly loyal, doing so would undermine their value to me. If they are not, I need to know how far their perfidy goes. It would take a powerful motivation to turn this asset, so if an inappropriate alliance has been formed, it would present great risk."

"Risk to whom?" asked John.

"Myself. And, by extension, anyone who relies on me." Mycroft sounded aggrieved, but John suspected it was due as much to John's participation in the call as the subject matter.

Sherlock stiffened. "Our parents?" he asked, suddenly fully engaged in the conversation.

"Yes. And you."

"I'm not reliant on you in any way," Sherlock objected, offended.

"You may not believe so, Sherlock, but others do. And it's that perception which counts."

Sherlock huffed. "Ridiculous. But I'll concede that having you provide their security may have put our parents at risk. Who is your mole?"

Mycroft didn't answer.

"Mycroft?" asked John, sharing a glance with Sherlock. He looked at the phone to ensure that the call was still connected. Full bars, call still active.

"Mouth too full to talk?" asked Sherlock solicitously. "Come on, Mycroft. I haven't got all day, who is it you want me to investigate?"

When Mycroft answered, all bluster had gone from his tone.

"Anthea," he said quietly.

Even Sherlock was shocked into silence. Anthea had been Mycroft's right hand woman for years. She was as close to him as it was likely possible to be without a family connection. She knew far too much for comfort—about Mycroft _and_ Sherlock. She'd been complicit in many covert events in the Holmes' life, including Sherlock's "suicide" and the subsequent attack on Moriarty's organization. Personal details of the brothers' lives were known to her that both would prefer never see the light of day. The possibility that she'd been turned to release that information to a third party was a deeply disturbing one.

As Sherlock and John absorbed this information, signage for the village of Wokstop came into view. Welbeck Abbey was just outside of the town center, with a tower peeking out above the treeline.

"Text me the details, Mycroft," said Sherlock. "I'll look into it for you."

After a few moments, Mycroft responded. "Thank you."

"Now, brother dear, I regret that we'll have to hang up on you. We've arrived to visit an old friend. Later," Sherlock said as John ended the call.

"Jesus," said John. "Anthea."

"Yes," breathed Sherlock. "Could be a bit of trouble there."

He steered the car through the gates of the Abbey, which were open during the evening for the occasional tourist tour or reception. "But we have even bigger trouble awaiting us here," he said. Both men alighted from the car. Sherlock gestured toward the door. "Shall we?" Sherlock grinned suddenly and bounded toward the door, John following reluctantly behind.

They'd arrived, and the Woman was waiting.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3.

"17 pounds!" spluttered John. He and Sherlock were at the tourist's entrance to Welbeck Abbey. John was appalled at the cost for a self-guided visit through the stately house. The ticket seller's assurances that it was a good value, not least of which because the tour included a stop at Welbeck Brewery, fell on deaf ears. Huffing, Sherlock stepped in front and paid for the two admittances. His willingness to pay (Sherlock being notorious for sticking John with cab fares) shocked John into silence.

The men entered the building. Not surprisingly, all of the closed side doors from the entrance hall were locked. The only path forward was a prescribed one leading through the main rooms.

"So, how do we get to the lower floor?" muttered John.

"We take the stairs," answered Sherlock condescendingly.

"Very funny, Sherlock. Or had you not noticed that there's no way to get to them?"

"There's always a way, John," answered Sherlock. Without another word, he walked into a stone plinth, knocking it and a bust of the 5th Duke of Portland to the ground. Happily, the Duke seemed made of stern stuff, because the statute simply bounced without harm onto a nearby rug. The plinth, however, crashed to the marble floor with a resounding bang, which brought a security guard and the ticket taker running.

"I'm so, so sorry," cried Sherlock, all but bowing and scraping. "I'm afraid that I wasn't watching where I was going. All this beauty here was distracting me."

Not sure where this was headed, John jumped in. "Yes, he's always doing things like this. Dead clumsy." Sherlock shot him a sour look at the observation. "He'd lose his head if it wasn't attached."

"Yes, well, I'll pay, of course. And I'll help clean up this mess," Sherlock bent to reach for the Duke's head. At the same time, he scooped up a piece of the broken plinth. A large cut opened across his palm, which began to bleed copiously onto the marble floor. John, the guard and the ticket taker started in horror.

"Jeez," said John. He snatched Sherlock's scarf from around his neck and began to wrap the hand, ignoring Sherlock's protests.

"I'm a doctor," John said. "I need a clean towel and bandages ASAP."

"No need, it'll stop on its own," Sherlock retorted, swinging his hand out as he spoke. Droplets of blood sprayed out from beneath the scarf, spattering onto the rug. "Oops!"

The Abbey employees jumped as if hit with hot pokers. Promising to return with cleaning materials (for Sherlock and the rug), they scampered off in different directions.

"Thank you!" called Sherlock. As soon as they were out of sight, he went to one of the locked doors. Pulling out a lockpicker's case, he began to work on the keyhole.

"Was that really necessary, cutting your hand?" hissed John.

"Did you have a better idea for distracting the staff?" Sherlock answered.

"What if there's a camera in here?"

"There isn't." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I checked, of course."

The door popped open and the men scooted through it. A staircase was to the right, which they started down.

"What's the plan?" asked John. "If Irene Adler is really behind the threat to reveal the Royal Family's secrets, why would she agree to meet you? And don't say dinner, that doesn't mean anything to me and you know it."

Sherlock smirked. "Dinner is a euphemism, John."

As he connected the dots, John stopped in his tracks. Sherlock took the opportunity to wrap his scarf more tightly around his hands, but refused to meet John's eyes.

"You mean…you and she…you really did?"

"Stop sounding like a shocked spinster. As you once said to me, I'm human, not a machine. I may not care a thing about relationships or sex, but that doesn't mean that I'm entirely without experience. I am a scientist, after all. Experimentation and knowledge are my guiding principles."

"Bit of the deep end, though, isn't it? I mean, she _is_ a dominatrix."

Sherlock looked disgusted, and muttered, " _Was_ a dominatrix. And not always, even then." As John opened his mouth to continue, Sherlock held up his uninjured hand. "That's all I'm saying on the subject."

"But-" John interjected.

"No," said Sherlock, and he walked down the remaining flight of stairs.

"Er, Sherlock…" Sherlock paused, looking back at John over his shoulder. "If, um, _dinner_ is the incentive here, should I wait outside?"

"Oh, for God's sake," growled Sherlock. "Shut up and come on." John grinned and followed.

The stairs ended at an archway through to a large, unlit room. Shadows suggested an imposing fireplace in the corner, but the room was otherwise empty. Roofline level windows barely added any illumination, given the overcast day outside. Overall, the effect was tomblike.

"There's no one here," whispered John.

"Why are you whispering?" Sherlock asked from his position in the center of the room. He walked forward, disappearing into the gloom. "There is an entire floor here. Just follow me and try not to make any more noise than necessary—" His voice cut off.

"Sherlock?" John called. No answer. Striding deeper into the room, John realized that hallways extended to three directions. Sherlock didn't appear to be in any of them.

"Sherlock!" John shouted. His voice seemed to echo back at him. Sighing in frustration, John spun in place, looking down each hallway. He chose the one closest to the center of the room, reasoning that Sherlock couldn't have gotten much farther along. There were no windows, so navigation quickly became an exercise in feeling the wall and hoping that nothing was in the way.

Unfortunately, there was—Sherlock. With an oompf, John smacked into his friend.

"Say hello to our guest, John," said Sherlock, tone flat.

"Er, hello?" he ventured. "Do you have a light? If I'm going to meet a dead woman, I generally like to be able to see her."

A flashlight snapped on. "I'm sure she'll feel the same, Dr. Watson."

John stared at the person standing in the circle of light. It wasn't Irene Adler.

"Anthea?" he asked incredulously.

She smiled slightly, then cut her eyes to Sherlock. "She had to relocate to one of the outbuildings. There is maintenance scheduled for the lower wing of the house. It will be filled with builders and cleaners starting Monday."

"Which doesn't explain why you're here," Sherlock answered. "There's a connection between you and the Woman, clearly. But what?" He began to circle Anthea, who raised an eyebrow but didn't move. "Ah…of course. I should have seen it sooner." He stopped in front of Anthea, eyes raking her from head to shoes. "And now for the big question. Does Mycroft know?"

She snapped off the light, plunging them all into darkness. "She's waiting for you in the guesthouse at the western edge of the property." Clicking heels signaled Anthea's departure.

"So, while we're stumbling back through the dark, care to fill me in on the big secret? Why was she here, Sherlock?" John grunted as he bumped into the wall, trying to follow the vanishing sound of Anthea's shoes.

"She's related to the Woman in some fashion. Not a sister, but cousin is likely. She's been working with her for some time."

"She took me to see Irene the first time she rose from the dead. At the Battersea Water facility." John recalled. "I didn't know you knew that."

"I didn't, but I suspected." Sherlock answered. "I saw the car, one of Mycroft's. It could have been any of his minions but in hindsight, Anthea was the obvious choice. It's clear from her earlobes."

John started to question that conclusion, but decided against it. If anyone could find a conspiracy in an earlobe, it was Sherlock. "Is this what Mycroft suspected? That Anthea is what…a double agent?"

"No, and nothing so dramatic. Mycroft picked up on the fact that she was keeping a secret, but I'm sure that's all. In his line of work, secrets can be deadly, so it wasn't something he could ignore. But a connection to a woman he believes to be dead? Mycroft doesn't have the imagination for it."

"How can you be so sure that Mycroft doesn't know about her?" John asked.

"Because I ensured that he wouldn't find out. I organized the Woman's untimely death, at least so far as he knew of it. It wasn't difficult to find the right people to pay off for their willingness to lie to him. What was it he told you? It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool him." A smile crept into Sherlock's tone. "Exactly."

"How did you hear that?" John muttered. "You weren't even in the room."

"As I've said before, John, don't try to hide from me at Speedy's. The staff doesn't hesitate to call when something happens that involves me." Sherlock snorted. "Frankly, I was disappointed in Mycroft. Choosing the café below 221 for a private discussion? He's slipping."

The hallway came to an end and the lights snapped on. John blinked hard against the brightness.

"He's not slipping," said Anthea. She looked composed, but her voice betrayed stress. "He trusts Dr. Watson, heaven knows why."

"Hey," John protested. Anthea ignored him, gaze fixed on Sherlock. "And he cares about you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I thought you were smarter than that. Apparently, I was wrong."

"And that's a statement you won't hear from him very often. Can we get on with this? I'm not a fan of being underground." John stepped forward between his two companions.

Anthea glowered for a moment, then her usual look of calm descended. "Take the right door. The alarm on it is disabled. You can follow the outside breezeway to the stone house near the trees. She'll be there."

John nodded. Sherlock didn't move, staring around him at Anthea. John clutched his injured hand and squeezed. "Ow!" Sherlock yanked his hand back. The mood between Anthea and him was broken, as John intended. With a nod, Sherlock followed John out of the room. Anthea spoke softly.

"Sherlock," she called. He stopped and turned back.

"You should know," she said. "Her answer would have been yes."

"What?" asked John.

"Nothing," said Sherlock. "Just nonsense." Anthea smiled sadly as they left the room.

Sherlock nearly stomped down the pathway. John had to walk quickly to keep up. "Nonsense, huh? Seems like it was more than that to me," said John.

"Shut. Up.," bit off Sherlock.

"Sounds as though Dr. Watson is being perceptive, as usual," came a throaty comment. John spun while Sherlock froze in place.

"Ms. Adler," said John wearily.

"You haven't changed at all," Irene observed.

"I can't say the same of you. Last I heard, you were dead," John responded.

"Don't believe everything you hear," she said.

"Especially not from this source," Sherlock added.

Her answering smile mirrored Anthea's melancholy one of a few minutes earlier. Irene was simply dressed, with her hair cut just above her jawline. Diamond studs twinkled at her ears. In her ballet flats, she appeared tiny, several inches shorter than John.

"We should go inside. Tour groups come through here all the time and I wouldn't want to be caught out. It's a nuisance, but I don't plan to make my stay here permanent."

"No, permanent doesn't suit you," snarked Sherlock. Without another word, Irene turned and walked down a cobbled path to a small outbuilding.

"You're going to fill me in on what's going on with you two," John decreed quietly to Sherlock.

"I can't wait. Oh, wait, yes I can," Sherlock retorted. They followed Irene into the stone house. It was a single room, lined with shelving. An old, crumbling wardrobe stood in one corner. The window shutters were closed, but would clearly let in a considerable amount of light when opened. The room also contained an duvet-covered airbed, a small cabinet and a curtain attached haphazardly to the ceiling, behind which stood a portable toilet.

"I love what you've done with the place," said John.

"Yes, well, as I said, it's temporary." Irene directed her comment to John, but her gaze was on Sherlock. Silence filled the room as the two stared at each other, neither moving a muscle or giving an inch. John's eyes swiveled between them. Both seemed to be waiting for something the other wasn't willing to give, or at least wouldn't be the first to offer. He finally broke the stalemate by clearing his throat.

"Sorry, but I believe we have business to discuss? The Queen—remember, Sherlock?"

"Ah, yes. Her Majesty. My ticket home," said Irene.

"She won't become involved in this," said Sherlock. "You've overplayed your hand."

"Actually, I don't expect her involvement to be strictly necessary. I have another ace in the hole."

Sherlock looked at her for several long moments, then smirked. "He won't help you."

"Precedent says he will," Irene shot back.

Sherlock frowned. "Precedent?"

"He'll take action for the things he cares about. In this instance, it's the monarchy and its reputation."

"And the precedent was…?" John interjected.

"What he cares for the most," Irene said softly.

"You're delusional," Sherlock responded.

"When it was his little brother on the line, he was willing to throw the country's interests on the dustbin. Iceman would let England burn if it meant saving you, Sherlock," Irene asserted.

Sherlock simply shook his head. "He was saving himself—as you once said, having his little brother be a major security leak wouldn't be a good career move."

Irene stepped up to him. "And having his personal assistant be one wouldn't be much better," she responded.

"You'd throw Anthea to the wolves to save your hide," John said darkly.

"My _hide_ is doing just fine where it's been, Doctor. I'm not doing this just to be in London again," Irene said.

"Then why are you doing it?" John shot back.

"For the sake of something else that _I_ care about," she said.

"Which is only yourself," Sherlock bit off.

Irene took another step forward, stopping inches away from Sherlock. She ran her fingertips slowly down his shirt, stopping just above his abdomen.

"You don't believe that," she whispered.

Sherlock shrugged. "It's the truth," he said.

"So is this," she answered. Rising to her toes, she brushed her lips across his. He didn't return the kiss, didn't move a muscle. Leaning back, she looked into his eyes then closed hers.

"Lost again," he whispered, then stepped back. John averted his eyes. The only sound in the room was their breathing. Then a voice broke through from outside.

"Despite the extensive space available in the home, the Duke kept these outbuildings for guest use and for occasional storage. Built of ancient stone, they're really quite charming…".

" _Sherlock,_ " hissed John. Sherlock stood stock still, looking at the space where Irene had been moments before. Her last words lingered in the air—"I have something you need to know. Find me." She was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

Pardon Me Too, Chapter 4.

Through sheer force of personality, Sherlock was able to persuade the tour guide at Welbeck Abbey that he and John had stumbled across the outbuilding and had no idea why it appeared to be inhabited. They left the property quickly afterward.

"Well, that was…er…," John trailed off, apparently at a loss to describe their meeting with Irene Adler with any clarity.

"Yes," said Sherlock. He didn't say another word until they were approaching London's suburbs.

"I'll drop you at home," he said as they neared John's neighborhood.

"Ok…wait, what? This is Mary's car!" John objected.

"Yes, and Mary is resting all day today. She isn't due yet and you can't drive anyway, so you don't need it. I do, hence I will be dropping you at home."

John began to formulate a response, then sighed in resignation. If he forced the issue, Sherlock would probably just circle back and steal the car anyway.

"Fine, but have it back before tomorrow morning. Mary has a doctor's appointment." Sherlock nodded his agreement.

A half hour later, he had parked the car in front of 221B. Dusk was falling, giving the white buildings a gray hue. Overall, the effect was stark and forbidding in an otherwise lovely road. Sherlock slipped into the front door, flipped on the sitting room lights and waited.

"How did you know I'd be here?" Irene's voice came out of the gloom in the kitchen.

"Obvious. This would have been my choice."

"So you're saying your choice would necessarily be my choice?" Irene chided. Sherlock rolled his eyes in response.

"Why don't you just tell me what you wanted to back at the Abbey and we can move on."

"I'm not planning to linger here, Sherlock, don't worry," Irene said.

"I'm not worried," declared Sherlock.

"I can tell," Irene responded. "You always hold your hands behind your back when you're not worried."

Sherlock immediately unclasped his hands and swung them forward. Irene smirked.

"I just have two things to tell you," she said.

"What's the first thing?" he asked.

"Joshua Gaines," said Irene.

"Sorry?" asked Sherlock.

"That's the name of the IT genius behind James Moriarty's resurrection. He's an American, based in New York." Irene responded. "Well, I say based. He's actually living in a place that's a step above a pizza box with a group of other prats. Brilliant, though, in his own way. I understand that he managed the broadcast from a laptop."

"I'm sure his mother loves him. What does this mean to me?"

"Nothing beyond appreciation for his work, which I'm sure you don't have. However, the reason why Gaines spread Jim's image far and wide may be of interest." Irene sat on the edge of Sherlock's chair. A memory flickered of another time when she'd sat in the same place, a time before they'd each betrayed the other. Sherlock shook his head slightly to chase it away.

"Which is?"

"Mycroft," Irene answered somberly.

"Sorry, what?"

"The broadcast was a message, but not for you. Well, not entirely for you—obviously, Jim is pulling your chain post-mortem. And in a timely fashion, no less, if I understand correctly what our Kingdom's plans were for you. But mostly it was for Mycroft. A twist on a game Jim played with you years ago."

"The great game," Sherlock said, nodding.

"If you insist. You may not have noticed because you were off jetting to your death, but Mycroft surely has. Five broadcasts, Sherlock. The same image, displayed five times in each neighborhood of London."

"Five pips," Sherlock said.

"Exactly. A warning of death, if I remember my American secret societies correctly."

"And you think it foretold Mycroft's death, why?"

"Because of this," Irene said. She gave a folded note to Sherlock. He opened and read it.

 _Dear Irene,_

 _Sadly, if you are reading this, the final problem was not resolved in my favor. Your gallant knight may have prevailed and lived while I've died. Corporeally, that is—my influence, however, will never pass from this earth. Poetic, don't you think?_

 _Just a heads up, my dear, that the largest obstacle (and I mean that in every sense) to your return to London will soon be removed. The Iceman Melteth…or will when my last plans are implemented. Oh, I know that he and, if he lived, his brother will have taken on my network and probably think they've dismantled it. Deluded souls…there is always a fly in the ointment or, as I once told Sherlock, a good old-fashioned villain for every fairy tale. My döppelganger will be coming for Mycroft soon, then you can start reading estate ads for your next abode. Don't worry, I'll be sure to give him plenty of warning, but it won't matter. His time is up._

 _Consider this my recompense for our failed plans to foil the Holmes brothers. Although, it really was your fault that we didn't succeed…next time, try not to get your foot, or your heart, stuck in the door or it will be cut off._

 _Love,_

 _Jim_

"Why are you giving this to me?" Sherlock asked. Irene just smiled sadly and walked toward the door. Sherlock's voice stopped her as her hand reached the door handle.

"Gaines is a tool, not the döppelganger," he said. She shook her head in agreement. "Who is?"

"I don't know. I didn't interact with anyone in Jim's network except a low level courier," Irene answered. "There was a man at our first meeting, though. He scared me without saying a word and, as you know, I don't scare easily. Tall, dark and psychotic. Brown hair, brown eyes, about your height, but with a coiled snake aspect that made Jim look absolutely cuddly."

"OK," Sherlock said. "What was the second thing?"

"What second thing?" she replied without turning. Sherlock watched as her shoulders drew up and her hand tightened on the knob of the sitting room door.

"Don't play games with me. It doesn't work. You said you had two things to tell me. Mycroft was first, I want to know what the second one is."

Irene shook her head. "I've changed my mind. I think I'll keep this one to myself." She still didn't turn around, but also didn't open the door.

"No," said Sherlock. "What about George Smith?"

Irene laughed grimly. "That information was only of use to me to get around any Governmental resistance to my coming home. Since I'm not staying, I'll keep it to myself. You can assure the Royal Family that their secrets are safe with me-again."

"That isn't all, though. Why aren't you going to use the information? Why not stay, now that you're here? Tell me," Sherlock insisted.

"Trust me, that isn't information you want," she said quietly.

"It's about me," Sherlock deduced. "You are a lot of things, but a coward isn't one of them. Why don't you face me and say what you came to say?"

Irene took a deep breath and spun around.

"It's nothing. Just that I'm leaving."

"Because of me," Sherlock offered.

Irene's eyes scanned the space. They finally settled on Sherlock. "Yes," she acknowledged.

"So you came all the way to London, risking retribution from my brother and others, just to warn me about Gaines and the warning he sent. I don't think so. You're not that altruistic."

"You don't know me. It's been years, maybe I've changed," Irene said, smiling.

"No," Sherlock replied. "You have changed, of course. But not in that way." He walked toward her, stopping just inside what would constitute the personal space of most people. Irene blinked, but didn't otherwise show any sign of being intimidated. Sherlock continued.

"You came to London wanting something specific. Having seen me, you no longer wish to stay. That means that you've decided that what you want isn't available. It's possible, of course, that you simply realize that my brother can't be persuaded to look the other way while you settle here, even by me. But that's a conclusion which could have been reached on foreign soil." Sherlock paced around Irene as he spoke, stopping just behind her. He leaned forward, making her exert all her considerable willpower not to step away.

"Could it be that you could only get what you wanted from me?"

Irene sighed wearily. "Stop this, Sherlock. You're like a cat teasing a dying mouse. You know why I came and you know why I'm leaving. Why don't we just say we discussed it and you can let me go."

"I prefer certainty," he responded.

Irene was silent for half a minute. "Fine," she said, resigned. "I can't stay because there's no place for me here. It was foolish to think that there was—not because the Iceman wouldn't let me stay, I could work around that. And I could deal with external threats. Heaven knows that it's always a matter of time in my life before something goes sideways and I fell through the cracks."

"Mixed metaphor," murmured Sherlock. Irene ignored him.

"If you must know, the real reason I can't stay is that I can't stand it," she turned, looking at last into his eyes. "I can't unlove you, Sherlock. I've tried, really I have, but I can't. Yet even if you were ever willing to recognize that you might feel something for me, or at least once did, it wouldn't be enough. And I _never_ settle."

Involuntarily, Sherlock drew in a quick breath. It was now on him to fight the impulse to walk away. _I did know that's what she'd say. Why am I so…_ The word escaped him, as did an appropriate reply.

Irene smiled sadly. "That's what I thought," she said. Moving past Sherlock, she opened the door and stepped out onto the landing. "I think I said this once, but I'll repeat myself anyway." She glanced back. "Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes." Irene left and the quiet in her absence was deafening.

Sherlock stood for a few moments. It would be easiest, possibly even best, to allow the matter to rest there with Irene. He had the note and the information which pointed to a threat for Mycroft, and could proceed to address it without her. Nothing else she said was relevant—he had no interest in a relationship and, if he did, there were other candidates better suited to his lifestyle…Janine and even Molly Hooper would be potential choices. But alone suited him best, as always. He was nodding in satisfaction at these thoughts as he found himself outside, following in Irene's footsteps.

Hearing him on the pavement, she turned. "What do you want?" she asked wearily.

"I have a car, I can give you a ride. Where are you going?"

"Chivalry, Sherlock? Or can you just not stand to know everything, including my next steps?"

He stiffened. What _was_ he doing? He should get into the car, return it to John and Mary and go find Mycroft. Instead, he opened the passenger door and waited.

"My, my. You do have manners. Bravo to your parents for shoving those down your throat, it couldn't have been easy." Irene chuckled.

"Oh, just get in the car," snapped Sherlock. Irene paused for a moment, looking at him closely. Whatever she found in his face was enough to allow her to move forward. She climbed into the passenger seat with a smile.

Once they were seated and had started out on the road, Sherlock acted as though Irene wasn't present. He called Mycroft then, in a nod to the driving laws, put the phone on hands-free. Mycroft's voice crackled over the speaker.

"How was your visit to Welbeck Abbey, brother mine? Enjoy your day as a tourist?" Mycroft said mockingly.

"Oh, I found it very interesting, Mycroft. Very interesting, indeed. In fact, it would be very tempting to keep the information I received from you, given that doing so could lead to your demise. I'd be losing 200 pounds without lifting a finger. Then again, losing weight isn't an issue for me, what must it be like to have food for an enemy?" Sherlock sneered.

"Says the man who refuses food regularly. Which of us is it who has an issue with it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock grimaced, then continued. "I have a nice letter from Jim Moriarty. Very warm—he was thinking of you in his last moments. The broadcasts were a message."

"Ah, yes. Five sets of broadcasts, five pips. So I'm the target then. How interesting." Mycroft was quiet for a while, then asked, "And what about my project? Have you learned anything of interest on it?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably behind the wheel. Finally, he said simply, "Anthea."

Silence greeted this revelation, then Mycroft sighed audibly. Sherlock spoke quickly into the breach.

"It's not what you think, Mycroft. She did nothing to betray you. She was simply acting on…a family connection."

"It's over," Irene interjected. "She won't have any further distractions."

Silence greeted this comment as well, but it had more of a stunned quality.

"Ms. Adler, I presume? I should have known that Sherlock wouldn't be able to leave well enough alone. The temptation to sweep in and rescue a damsel in distress would be too much for him and his knight-in-shining-armor complex. So what kind of extortion from you do we have on our plate today?"

"Nothing," Irene said flatly. "My business here is over." Sherlock shot her a look then returned his attention to the road.

"Pardon me if I find that difficult to believe. My experience of you suggests otherwise," Mycroft responded smoothly. "I am very busy, so if you could just say what you want then-".

The sound of an explosion filled the car. The phone connection was broken.

"Mycroft!" shouted Sherlock.

Irene pressed her hand over her mouth and looked at him, wide-eyed. Sherlock slammed his foot down on the gas pedal and the car rocketed forward. Traffic had lessened, but was still too tight to allow for fast travel. Being just blocks away from Mycroft's office at MI5, the sidewalks would be faster.

Sherlock yanked the wheel, pulled to the curb and jumped from the car almost before it had stopped. As he ran off down the road, Irene whispered, "Oh my, God," as she sat and watched him go.


	5. Chapter 5

Pardon Me Too, Chapter 5

Sherlock sprinted the five blocks to MI5's headquarters, heart pounding. The explosion he'd heard from the car reverberated in his ears as he ran. Coming around the corner of the last block his forward progress was blocked by ambulances and police cars tearing past. Sherlock paused to check whether Mycroft was among the people being helped out of the building. He wasn't.

Ducking around police officers who were trying to control the crowd, Sherlock shot up the stairs to the front door. A stunned-looking guard attempted to stop him from entering but stepped aside when Sherlock flashed a badge, too quickly for the photo of Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade on it to be clearly seen.

Once inside the door, the sight before him finally stopped Sherlock in his tracks. People were scattered everywhere like a discarded set of Legos. Some were simply sitting, too numb to rise or incapable of trying. Others were lying down, many disturbingly still. The rest were milling about, expressions either panicked or blank. None of them were Mycroft.

Since he didn't care about the others, Sherlock pushed through the bodies toward the elevator bank. They weren't working and the doors to the staircases were locked. Police were beginning to fill the lobby, so Sherlock acted quickly. He grabbed the arm of a man standing nearby.

"We need to clear the staircases. Give me your security ID," he demanded in the most commanding tone he could muster. The man merely stared back uncomprehendingly. Judging his state of shock to be incapacitating, Sherlock snatched the ID off of the man's jacket lapel. A vague unease shifted through the man's eyes and he raised his hand as if to object, then shrugged. He shuffled off toward the front door without a word.

Sherlock quickly swiped the card over the reader lock, holding his breath in the hope that it was in better repair than the elevators. It was, and the door clicked open. Sherlock was through the door and moving downward in seconds. Mycroft's office was in the basement and Sherlock hoped against hope that it had been protected enough from the blast for Mycroft to survive. He didn't stop to examine the emotion that coursed through his body, at odds as it was with his normal attitude to his brother.

When he reached the entrance to the basement, Sherlock was greeted by another door and lock. This time, swiping the card across the lock reader was useless. Apparently the owner of the ID hadn't had sufficient clearance to access this level of the building. Sherlock swore loudly and kicked at the door.

He was shocked to his core when it opened.

Leaning against the door was Mycroft. Hair disheveled, clothes torn, nose and ears bleeding, he was a shadow of his usual self. He blinked, seemingly scouring his brain for Sherlock's identity. With a flash of recognition, Mycroft slumped in relief. His typical remoteness was absent and he reached a shaky hand toward Sherlock. The latter thought he was about to fall and grabbed at him before seeing a note in Mycroft's hand. Taking it instead of his brother, Sherlock read it quickly. It was two words long: _Miss me?_

Mycroft nodded sharply, then fell to his knees. Pulling him away from the door, Sherlock laid him on his back.

"Mycroft, is there still any danger?" Sherlock asked urgently.

He got a confused stare in response. Sherlock repeated the question, speaking slowly to allow Mycroft to read his lips. The blood drying beneath Mycroft's ears suggested that his hearing was likely impaired, if not eliminated altogether.

Following Sherlock's words, Mycroft nodded. "No…more bomb," he slurred. "Not sure...if any other issue."

Sherlock cast his gaze around the corridor. Few people had access to this part of the building, so he wasn't surprised not to see anyone else. The state of the walls and doors suggested that an explosive source had been planted nearby, probably in addition to one or more upstairs. That Mycroft was alive at all was staggering. Sherlock pushed the nausea which rose at the thought of losing him away.

"We need to get you to medical help," Sherlock said. "Are you ok to be moved?"

Mycroft shook his head, but it wasn't clear to Sherlock whether the movement was intended to communicate a negative answer to the question or was just involuntary. "Mycroft, can you be moved?" he repeated.

Mycroft suddenly focused on him with an intensity he'd been lacking. "No, we have to…to…," his voice faded and his gaze moved past Sherlock.

"I believe what he is trying to say is that you need to get away from me. Too late!" called out a voice cheerfully. Sherlock looked back over his shoulder. A man stood behind him holding a gun. He was about 6 feet tall, brown haired with brown eyes and a wide grin. Irene's psychopath.

"So nice to meet you at last, Mr. Holmes and Mr. Holmes. I've heard so much about you. Although not recently, of course, since you dispatched my boss. Or did he dispatch himself? So difficult to know which rumors to believe. Anyway, he's gone, but I'm here and, unfortunately for you, so are you both."

"So, what is this? Avenging Moriarty's death? Or do you fancy yourself his replacement?" Sherlock sneered.

"Neither. I couldn't care less about our dearly departed Jim. He was simply a paycheck. And now I stand to make a much bigger one, a payout which will set me up for life if I complete his plan to end yours. See, Jim always _really_ hated to come in second, even after death. So he set up a scheme to make sure you followed him if he was the first of you to shuffle off this mortal coil," the man singsonged.

"If all you wanted was to take out my brother and me, you could have done it anywhere. Why bother bombing MI5? That had to take an extraordinary amount of effort," Sherlock said.

"Yes, yes it did. I could just say that I needed a distraction. A bomb in a high profile place would certainly keep your many protectors from coming to your aid. So the distraction was a bonus, but the choice of MI5? That was personal." The man's voice no longer held any lightness. "See, I used to work here. Loved it and was great at my job until some doctor decided I wasn't 'stable' enough to do it any longer." He made air quotes with his hands, including the one carrying the gun.

Sherlock took his chance. Diving into the man's legs, he knocked him off his feet. The gun discharged. A screeching sound tore through the room and the ceiling tiles shook. Sherlock and the shooter had just begun to grapple when the tiles and a pipe running above them broke loose and fell in on them. Unfortunately, the collapse disabled Sherlock more than his opponent, who swung the gun around to point it at Sherlock's head.

"Stop!" gasped Mycroft, voice hoarse but firm. "Sherlock, you still work for me. I order you to stand down."

"It seems," said Sherlock, coughing. "That I don't have a choice in the matter." The barrel of the gun was now an inch from his forehead.

"No, you don't." The man's voice was now ice cold. "What wonderful brains I understand you both have. It will be truly delightful to have them scattered across this floor. Maybe I'll be able to see what makes you tick?"

A click signaled the safety being put off. Sherlock braced against the inevitable bullet just as the shot rang out. He was knocked back, but not because of an injury. The now bleeding out bomber fell against him, wetness seeping through his clothes onto Sherlock.

"You always were in the way," the man muttered, then pulled the trigger just before passing on. The bullet grazed Sherlock's leg, causing him to groan. He tried to roll out from under the dead man, but was pinned to the floor.

"Don't just stand there, Lestrade. Get this worthless pile of flesh off of me," Sherlock growled.

Greg Lestrade strode into the room, hesitating only long enough to put his gun away and decide which Holmes brother to attend to first. Shoving the shooter off of Sherlock, he turned to Mycroft, who looked far less well. Sherlock followed, pulling himself across the floor to Mycroft.

"Don't you dare die on me, brother mine. Mummy will never let me live it down." While his words were terse, his gestures were gentle. He began to inspect Mycroft, poking and prodding while gritting his teeth against the pain in his bleeding leg.

"Not going to die, Sherlock. You'd inherit. Besides, you'd have far too much fun without me to annoy you," Mycroft muttered.

"Far too much fun," Sherlock responded with a smile. He wiped drying blood off of Mycroft's face. "Let's get out of here."

He startled at a hand on his arm. Looking up, he saw Sargent Sally Donovan, Lestrade's second-in-command, reaching down to help him up. She had a curious look on her face.

"Come on, freak," she said, with no venom in her voice. "The paramedics are coming and will take care of you."

"Mycroft first," Sherlock commanded.

She nodded. "Your brother?"

"Yes. He was here when the bomb went off."

The look on Sally's face became even more incomprehensible to Sherlock. If he had to guess, he'd say it was one of sympathy. But she'd always hated him and he'd given as good as he got. The idea of her softening to him seemed improbable, but there it was.

"Not a psychopath, then?" Sally said quietly.

"I'm no psychiatrist, but I'd say there's a good chance he was," Sherlock responded, waving a hand toward the dead man.

Sally shook her head. "Not him. You."

Sherlock looked at her steadily. Sally had branded him a lunatic, a freak, not long after they'd met and he began to outshine her in solving crimes.

"I'm a high-functioning sociopath," he said.

"Sure you are," she said, and helped him to his feet. Hopping on his good leg, he let her lead him from the room, following Mycroft on a stretcher.

By the next morning, Sherlock and Mycroft were being discharged from the hospital. Despite their condition, both had been interrogated by MI5 and Scotland Yard about the bombing until the wee hours of the night. Sherlock switched from complaining about the questioning to grousing at the indignity of being treated for a second gunshot wound within a year, but mostly kept a close eye on Mycroft's treatment.

Remarkably, Mycroft escaped largely unscathed, with mostly cuts and bruises. But it seemed likely that his hearing in one ear was irretrievably damaged, a revelation which made him very grumpy indeed. Too grumpy to withstand his brother's ministrations, so Mycroft insisted on being released without Sherlock's services as caretaker.

While waiting for their discharge papers, Sherlock pressed Mycroft on his care. "Who's going to look after you, Mycroft? The Queen?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and didn't bother to answer.

"Speaking of which, I did have an assignment from Her Majesty. One you'll be glad to hear was resolved successfully," Sherlock said.

"Ah yes, the George Smith matter." Mycroft grimaced and rubbed at his damaged ear. The lack of sound entering it was disturbing.

Sherlock frowned at Mycroft's knowledge of the private message he'd received. He preferred to be surprising far more often than Mycroft's access to intelligence usually allowed.

"Yes, well, I'm assured that there will be no disclosures about the allegations against the Prince or how they were dealt with by the Palace."

"And you believe her?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock sighed internally. Of course Mycroft would know that his information had come from Irene Adler.

"Completely," Sherlock said with a confidence he didn't entirely feel. Mycroft looked closely at him and silence drew out between the brothers.

Finally, Mycroft nodded, looking weary. "Very well, then."

The door to his hospital room opened and they both looked up in anticipation of the doctor's arrival. Instead, Anthea stepped inside the room. Her eyes locked onto Mycroft's, who said nothing. His face was entirely without expression. Hers matched it.

"You're here to take him home?" asked Sherlock, knowing the answer.

"Yes," Anthea said crisply.

"No," answered Mycroft. Anthea looked to Sherlock.

"Stop being a pompous prick, Mycroft. You know that Anthea is as loyal to you as ever, more than most. Not to mention, your options here are limited. Either you go with her and get well, go with me and risk starving, or I call our parents. Which will it be?"

Mycroft swiveled his gaze to Sherlock, horrified. "You wouldn't dare call them," he said.

"Watch me," answered Sherlock gleefully. He got up and rested his weight on a crutch.

Mycroft sighed theatrically, but rose from the bed. Anthea took in the bandages on his face, head and arm, and reached to steady him. He gazed impassively at her for a few seconds, then smiled.

"I'm out of here," said Sherlock and hobbled out the door.

After paying his cabbie, Sherlock stood for several moments looking at Mary's car, which was now parked in front of 221B. It took several minutes to pull himself up the stairs to his flat. Breathing hard, he stopped on the landing to gather strength for his trip to his bedroom. The sitting room door opened.

"Hello," said Irene.

"I thought you were leaving?" said Sherlock, eyebrow raised.

"I had to return the car. Wouldn't want to add towing charges to all the excitement. You're all right?" she asked. He nodded. "And Mycroft?"

"Battered and bruised, but he'll be back to his usual obnoxious self in no time," Sherlock answered. Irene looked visibly relieved.

"That's good, then."

"Yes," said Sherlock.

"Well, come in before you fall down," Irene broke the pause in conversation. "Can I get you anything before I go?"

"No. Yes. An answer."

"To what?"

"What if you _could_ stay in London?" Sherlock asked.

Irene shook her head sadly. "We've been through this, Sherlock. You know why I can't stay and it's nothing either of us can change."

"That doesn't answer my question, and I hate repeating myself," Sherlock groaned.

Irene looked at him warily. "You don't want me, Sherlock, you know you don't. And I'd rather keep making a life somewhere else than sit on your sidelines."

"I don't want…picket fences. A relationship. What John and Mary have. Any of it. That isn't in me, but I don't think it's in you either."

"No, it's not," agreed Irene. "But, what we had after you so gallantly rescued me in Kabul, well, that's the kind of "relationship" I could very much handle, at least occasionally. But I'm not sure you can or even want to try to make it possible."

Sherlock looked away, skin reddening slightly. The conversation was now miles outside of his comfort zone, but he was determined to resolve it.

"Neither am I. But if I was willing to make an effort, at least sometimes..." Sherlock struggled to find the right words. His extensive vocabulary, running to numerous languages, didn't cover the proposal he was trying to make. "Could that work?"

"Over time? I don't know," said Irene quietly. She closed her eyes, thinking hard. "But for right now? Yes."

Sherlock looked at her, trying desperately to deduce her meaning. "Hmm," he hummed to himself. He took several steps away, stopped, then began to pace again. As he circled around her to reach toward the door, Irene's shoulders sagged. He was showing her out.

Instead, he snapped off the light.

"Good enough," he murmured, and closed the door behind them.

- _Fin_ —

 _A/N2: Sherlock's had a rough time of it in this story. He deserved some fun, even if it's not compliant with any canon or the most popular ship to sail._


End file.
